The Call to Service
by braceface freak
Summary: "I've seen your résumé Colonel…not the record of a man who likes peace. I can give you what you really want, what no-one else can. I can give you the thrill of the battlefield Sebastian." Part 1 of the 'Wicked Games' series. Pre-JimXSeb.
1. Chapter 1

**The Call to Service  
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**Disclaimer:****I do ****not own anything related to Sherlock. It's not mine. None of it. **

_So my headcanon!Moran is played by Michael Fassbender, I just think he's perfect. __But if you see someone else that's fine, in fact I'd be interested to know who you imagine. _

* * *

><p>Seb stood and rubbed his left palm over his right knuckles, smearing both hands with blood. His breathing was heavy as he kicked out behind him, his foot meeting the other man's groin and sending him to join his three friends on the grimy concrete. Seb didn't look down as he kicked out at the man's face, hearing a satisfying crack as the fellow's nose yielded beneath his toes. He gave one last thrust of his leg for good measure.<p>

Everything was quiet. No-one else approached.

_Better for them_, Seb thought flexing his ankle; there was blood on his boots.

His blue eyes strayed from his shoes to the newly floored man and he sucked in a sharp breath: a police officer.

"_Shit," _he hissed, his eyes taking in every detail of the fallen man from his fluorescent jacket to his perfectly pressed trousers.

He needed to get going before another officer turned up and saw their colleague sprawled on the ground.

A pool of blood was growing steadily around his cracked skull Seb thought he even spotted the white glint of bone. The scene transfixed him for a moment; despite knowing he needed to move he couldn't help but observe his handiwork for a little longer, pushing the side of his boot against the young man's cheek to roll his head over. Two years ago he would have finished the job and disappeared without a trace in ten seconds flat: once again it hit him that he was no longer the well-oiled soldier he had once been and it felt like a kick in the gut.

There were footsteps now coming from the busy high street. They echoed loudly in the quiet alley; _three of them_, Moran guessed from the noise, _maybe four_.

He could take them on of course, but if he tried and was caught he was going to be in for an ever rougher time; assaulting a police officer could get you a few months to a few years depending on how well the bloke got on with his superior officers. Assaulting three or four was bound to get him a nice, prolonged sentence and the thought of spending even a day in a cell did not appeal to Seb in the slightest.

He looked around for an alternative escape route but found nothing.

Skulking behind a bin was the best he could hope for and that was even less appealing than a cell.

By the time he had evaluated all this it was too late anyhow: a few pairs of hands had secured themselves around his upper arms and were pulling him backwards, away from the blood and bodies. Someone else was talking into a phone. His hearing was clearly a little off too-there were definitely more than four of them and by the looks of their white and shiny yellow cuffs over half were police with the odd civilian joining in for the thrill.

Seb struggled at first, managing to shake off two pairs of hands and adding a few more spots of blood to his clothing before something sharp bit into his leg.

Suddenly his muscles were no longer under his control. With a quiet grunt he joined the other bodies on the ground, his body spasming as 50000 volts coursed through his nervous system, rendering him useless.

The pain quickly dissipated and his muscles gave a final, fleeting jerk, leaving him on the pavement unable to move as he watched the group of hazy figures swarm in. Hands reached out wrapping around his biceps and he was lifted up away from the stability of the ground, his knees dragging against the dirt before he was flung roughly into the back of a van.

His clouded mind was functioning just enough for him to form a few one syllable swear words but his tongue wouldn't co-operate in the process of turning the thoughts into sounds. The high pitched wail of sirens screamed through the silence as the van pulled sharply away from the curb.

The night really had turned to shit and he reckoned there was far more still to come.

He cursed, the words leaving his mouth as a jumble of incomprehensible sounds before deciding he may as well enjoy the journey before he was subjected to the wave of police brutality he guessed was coming. He'd been in the Army, he knew about those sorts of things _intimately_.

_Breathe in, two, three, four, five, breathe out. _

He used one of the many breathing techniques his mentor had taught him, his body responded instantly his reeling mind slowing and the left-over tremor in his limbs subsiding.

That was better.

xxxxxxxxx

By the time they'd arrived at the local station Seb was feeling slightly bruised but had regained enough of his faculties to stumble in on his own two feet, albeit shoved along by three wary looking policemen.

A woman stood behind the desk, her uniform and make-up immaculate.

He gave her a wink as he leaned against the counter, she looked back stony faced-_clearly that wasn't going to work this time around.  
><em>

One of the men alongside him was talking but Seb wasn't paying attention.

Pain flashed through his knee and he bit back a curse as he watched the baton slide smoothly back into the officer's belt; he would have smashed in his skull as payment if only his hands were free. Instead he folded his brow into an expression of grim hatred.

"Sebastian Julius Moran," he drawled out with utter contempt, flicking his eyes briefly to the woman who was now busily typing into the computer. A slight widening of her eyes indicated that she'd found what she wanted, with a name like his it never took too long and he watched with slight amusement as she turned the screen around and let her colleagues read his profile for themselves. One of the younger ones visibly gulped and made some feeble excuse to leave-paperwork to complete or something. The hand of the commanding officer stopped him; the poor lad looked physically pained.

Begrudgingly he allowed himself to be roughly dragged off; he didn't want to be tasered again guessing that he would need to be as alert as possible if he wanted to survive the night with minimum injury. The use of the baton had only assured him.

The routine was the same as always: photographs, breathalyser, no DNA or fingerprints needed they already had that on file.

Next they took away anything they believed he could use to damage himself: shoelaces, belt, penknife, wallet…the officer in charge of the store held out a hand and Seb frowned. The middle aged man motioned towards Seb's neck and the well-polished silver chain that hung against his skin.

"Your tags."

Seb's hands coiled around the slithers of silver protectively, he'd forgotten about those for the first time ever.

"You have to hand them over sir."

"And what if I don't?"

The police officer stared at him narrow eyed for a moment as if analysing whether the thin chain could be of any danger.

"I'm not going to try and hang myself with it," Seb spat and for a moment he thought the other man was going to let it slide, his finger relaxing their vice like grip.

A hand gripped the chain from the front and tugged, the clasp gave way with little struggle and Seb suddenly felt bare. They had been his life for so long he still felt naked without them. There was a gentle clang of metal on metal as they were set down on the counter top and whisked away. Seb's fist closed again, this time on empty air.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The cell was white-walled and empty save for the single bed with a thin foam mattress, Seb had seen it all before.

The older police officer-the one with the baton-pushed Seb roughly through the door and followed him in. Three other officers accompanied him not the same ones as before, Seb noted, these ones were larger, burlier, no skinny runts present.

A smirk pulled at Seb's lips as he ran a hand over his rough chin though he couldn't be certain why. Even an ex-soldier would struggle against these four men and as he had learned he was _very_ much out of practice.

The door slammed shut.

The four men closed in.

Seb managed to get two strikes in before everything fell to shit. One floored the leader of the group the other cracked one of the ape's teeth, his knuckle split on the sharp edge of enamel but it was too rewarding a hit for that tiny detail to bother him. Seeing his blood smeared across another's lips sent a familiar shiver down his spine, one he had craved every day since his dismissal. Seb laughed.

It seemed however that the men had a game plan and the next thing he knew the three larger ones were holding him steady, their arms securing his own behind his back as the older man picked himself up; Seb was pleased to see he was still panting and looked slightly red in the face. The police officer gave a short snarl, his arm pulled back in an exaggerated position of cartoonish proportions; it looked like Seb may have gotten lucky and picked the one officer in all of Manchester's police force who didn't know who to punch properly.

The fist made contact with his jaw, bony knuckles digging into his flesh causing his nerves to burn.

Maybe not.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The floor was not very comfortable, Seb concluded finally, rolling gently onto his side to both stretch out his back and to get rid of the blood that was pooling in the groove beneath his nose. One of his eyes was so swollen he couldn't see out of it and as the damaged skin touched the cold, concrete floor he sucked in a sharp breath and swore. It even hurt to breathe.

To be fair considering there were four of them and one of him he hadn't done too badly, at least one of them had left with a broken wrist…and perhaps a broken rib or two.

A small smile tugged at Seb's lips.

Something made a noise outside, it sounded somewhat like the jangle of a lock and the sound of a bolt sliding. Seb didn't bother to turn and look. He could take a pretty good guess at who it was and why they were there.

Footsteps sounded in the space behind him, just one pair. Still Seb didn't move.

"Colonel Moran."

Seb gritted his teeth; how many times did he have to tell people he was no longer a colonel; that the privilege had been stripped from him along with his badges and beret almost three years ago?

He could have punched the man; instead he just rolled over and glared silently.

"You have to come with me."

His glare intensified, his eyes flicking between the darkly attired bloke and the heavy door that was stood wide open behind him.

He could try and make a break for it although he didn't like his chances of a clean getaway. He sucked a breath in between his teeth and raised one eyebrow.

"If you haven't noticed I've been arrested."

The man's expression switched rapidly from frustration to mild amusement as one hand came to sweep through his hair just above his ear, there was the faint glimmer of plastic: an earpiece. Seb frowned but didn't move an inch.

"Then what are you waiting for?"

The bulky man stepped aside clearing the exit; a dangerous move Sebastian contemplated, though he remained absolutely still continuing to stare up at his visitor with narrowed eyes.

"Colonel," the low, sluggish voice was tinged with impatience, "I am on a very tight schedule so if you wouldn't mind."

Gingerly Seb lifted himself from the concrete barely trusting his battered muscles to support him. They quivered a little as he settled his weight but held out. He was unbelievably grateful, collapsing in front of a complete stranger was not one of his favoured past-times; his pride had been wounded enough already.

The man stood opposite him nodded, turned slowly on his heel and stepped through the open doorway into the sparse grey corridor beyond.

Sebastian followed after a momentary pause suddenly realising how absurd the entire situation was; he had been arrested for assaulting a police officer as well as three members of the public, the idea that he could just walk out of the station was ridiculous….

….Still it was worth a shot.

Wrapping an arm around his torso to support his fractured ribs Sebastian sauntered down the corridor after the unnamed fellow, hearing a third pair of footsteps fall into rhythm behind his own.

No-one looked up as they reached the end of the corridor and passed the custody lobby, though that was most definitely due to the fact that the entire station seemed to be deserted. Sebastian frowned, his mouth slipped open but something prevented him from asking the question that was burning in his mind.

Something strange was going on and somehow he had found himself caught in the middle of it, though for the life of him he couldn't work out why!

They crossed the blue and grey entrance hall, which was again entirely empty, and were then out in the open, a chill breeze carrying the smell of exhaust fumes and freedom across his skin.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Who wants to see me?" Seb asked as he was escorted into an out-of-town warehouse on an industrial estate made up of identical buildings, leaving the unremarkable silver ford they had travelled in parked some distance away.

It was like something out of a gangster movie, Sebastian thought to himself, and yet he was still following.

The man in front of him stopped before a closed door, laying his palm flat against the dented metal so it opened a crack. He inclined his head towards it.

"Ask him yourself."

Seb's hand reached out pushing the thin veil of metal in front of him and stepping through the narrow space into the dimness beyond.

No-one. Not a single, bloody soul.

He glanced at his wrist, entirely forgetting that his personal effects were still locked away under police custody. He swore and decided to count instead. Whoever these bastards were they had three minutes, otherwise he was going.

He waited four in the end just to be certain. Still no-one turned up, the only sound the crash of traffic from the main road on the other side of the estate.  
>He shoved his hands into the pockets of his bloodied jeans and turned on his heel; perhaps it was all just some big practical joke and he'd get outside only to be cornered by the police and beat into a bloody pulp all over again…that older officer seemed like the type of guy who liked to fuck with people.<br>Or maybe it was his father doing him a favour; after all what good was it having copious amounts of money and power if you couldn't bribe your son's way out of prison?

"Leaving us so soon Colonel?" The voice was unfamiliar, a strange hybrid of English and Irish accents that was both soft and completely unyielding at the same time.

Sebastian clenched his jaw as he turned around, his eyes slowly lifting up to meet those of the man who had called him here.

All he found was a shadowy figure stood about 10 metres in front of him, all fine details lost in the hazy light filtering through the splintered windows set high above the ground.

"Of course you no longer have a right to that title do you?"  
>Sebastian didn't say anything though he was certain he was going to lose a few centimetres worth of enamel on his molars.<p>

There was a rattling click from somewhere above them and a sudden beam of blinding white light exploded in the dimness, illuminating the lone figure so Sebastian could see him with sudden clarity from his exceptionally polished black shoes past his pressed suit to his well-combed hair.

"You were surprisingly easy to track down," there was a hint of disappointment in his tone that Sebastian didn't understand; "We'll have to do something about that."

"Who the fucking hell are you!"

The short man tutted disapprovingly although the sloping smirk on his lips told a different story.

"Language Mr Moran. And as for my identity I'd rather only divulge that slice of information once we've had a little chat."

"Whatever you want I'm not interested," Sebastian spat.  
>He didn't like this strange Irishman, there was something in those large, black eyes that unnerved him more than anything he had ever seen before….and he had lived in a warzone.<p>

The unnamed fellow didn't say a word though it looked like every muscle in his face had contracted simultaneously; his mouth had dropped down at the edges into an angry, little frown.

"A shame," he drooled, his mixed accent leaving the vowels sounding elongated and strange. There was a snap of fingers and suddenly Seb found himself surrounded by five…no six men, all wearing the same dark attire, gun holsters visible beneath their shirts, "I didn't want it to get to this."

Even with three broken ribs and numerous cuts and bruises he managed to floor three of the men before he was shoved down roughly, someone's knee in the space between his shoulder blades and the cold barrel of a handgun jammed to the base of his neck.

"Now Mr Moran this morning I gave you a get out of jail free card, I think it only polite that you _shut-up_ and listen to my proposition. What do you say?"

"You fucking bas…"

"Not the right answer."

The Irishman gave a sharp nod and the barrel was jammed even harder against his skin, pressing against the tender bundle of nerves and making him shudder. His chest was aching and he was certain if they didn't let him up soon one of his fractured ribs was going to pierce his lung, then he would be in a whole lot more trouble.

"Fine," he wheezed.

A half-satisfied smile twitched onto the standing man's lips and he shifted from one foot to the other, humming quietly to himself all the while.

_Completely crazy, _Seb concluded, _it was looking less and less likely that he was going to get out of this alive. _

"I need a gunman, a good one with the record to prove it. And you've made quite a name for yourself in certain circles."

Seb felt his lips quirk upwards; that was almost a compliment if he knew one.

"Thank you."

The Irishman approached slowly, the toe of his raised foot dragging along the ground as he took a stride forwards, the most obvious sign that he was deliberately dragging this out. Suddenly that pale face was almost level with Seb's, his white teeth showing between his thin lips as he smiled widely though not pleasantly.

"Oh don't thank me my dear. You weren't even close to the top of the list."

Seb couldn't be sure of course but he would bet a rather large sum of money that that wasn't strictly true; the casual power in his voice, not to mention the fact Seb was being pinned to the floor by three of his men, made Seb think that whatever this man wanted he got.

"So you want a gun for hire?" Seb asked, "I gave all that up a while ago. I prefer to just be left in peace now."

"I've seen you résumé Colonel…not the record of a man who likes peace," he leaned in closer, so close that Seb could feel his breath and smell the spearmint of his toothpaste, "I can give you what you really want, what no-one else can. I can give you the thrill of the battlefield."

Sebastian's breath caught awkwardly in his throat and for a second he was back there amidst the chaos of the war; the acrid scent of gunfire, the shock of a recoiling gun, the splash of crimson on yellow sand. It was the first time he'd truly admitted to it since his dismissal from the army and his return from Africa but he missed it…Oh God he missed it!

He sighed and the Irishman's lips twitched. Those dark eyes narrowed and bored into his own blue ones, searching for an answer.

"Now you can either re-pay me with your services or with your life. Which will it be?"

Seb nodded, it was the only movement he could make and he only hoped the man would read his reply correctly.

There was another snap of fingers, the gun was removed and Seb was pulled onto his feet, a little more gently than he had been pushed down.

"A wise decision Colonel. You're not as stupid as you look."

"I'm not a Colonel anymore." Sebastian snapped, the muscles of his neck twinging with aggravation.

The little man stepped up to him; his hands plunged deep into his pockets and a condescending smile frozen on his white mouth.

"You will be whatever I say you are," his lips popped out the final word as they formed a smirk around the individual syllables , "Colonel."

Sebastian frowned, already beginning to wonder what bizarre sect he had unwittingly joined.

He cast a fleeting glance over his shoulder observing the hired thugs who were currently lined up silently against the closest wall. No-one spoke, no-one moved except for the continued race of their eyes trying to keep up with the pacing figure of their boss. They were even better behaved than the precision-trained recruits he'd had under his command in the army. Seb could see exactly what kept them so obedient. The power of fear was something he was very familiar with.

Turning back to the now still figure who had placed himself directly in front of him Seb observed the boyish angles of his pale face, the soft lines of dark hair…nothing too terrifying there.

But the eyes.

Those eyes, almost black, hid something Seb had never seen before and would likely never see again in another person…a madness perfectly harnessed and yet barely controlled.

Courage was something Sebastian had always prided himself on; whether he was facing a man-eating tiger or watching his men being sliced to bits at the hands of terrorists he had never let his fears beat him. Looking into those eyes, he thought, was the closest he would ever come to it though.

Who in God's name was this guy?

As if in direct response to his question the Irishman jerked his arm forward, leaving it suspended in the air in front of him.

"James Moriarty," his white digits waggled in the air not even stilling when Moran wrapped his own tanned ones around them, "My friends call me Jim," he was drumming a rapid beat on skin of Seb's palm. Suddenly they pulled away, diving into his jacket pocket. They emerged a second later with something silver dangling from their slender lines. Seb almost grinned as his tags were pressed into his hand. "_You_ can call me sir."


	2. Chapter 2

**Police have just taken target down.**

Pale fingers traced the words on the screen almost sensually before moving onto the keypad and beginning to tap out a reply.

**How was it?**

It took a little longer than he'd have liked to get an answer, it could have been bad signal after all but in the middle of a city James preferred to think otherwise, he would have to teach Stanhope the merits of faster typing.

**Impressive.**

He smiled, this was looking promising and after all the recent disappointments he had been having lately it was a welcome change.

Glancing at his watch he noted the time and pulled on his coat in response; Sunday morning was never busy but he always preferred to be arrive early, even if he made the other party wait for an hour while he pointlessly fussed with his cufflinks in the back of his car. Sometimes people needed reminding just who was in charge and sometimes,_ just sometimes_, dismemberment was not a valid option.

**Keep to the plan. No deviations. **

He replied rapidly. His face hardened and his hands worked deftly over the buttons of his jacket fastening it securely around his small form against the chill outside. The phone vanished into deep pockets, forgotten about as he slipped out of the hotel room and headed to the closest lift. If everything went to plan-and it better-Stanhope wouldn't be in contact for another hour.

Jim entered the lift, fitting into the space between a couple who were too absorbed in each other to notice his arrival and a businessman who stank of vodka. He glanced at his wrist again, the new Rolex glittering dimly from beneath his shirt cuff; perhaps they would have time to stop at that bakery on the way out of town, he was suddenly craving something sugary.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

"Colonel Moran," the hollow sounding voice of one of his men filtered into his ear via the custom moulded earpiece. There was no reply as Jim texted the man's next line and pressed send. From his phone the words would be flown through cyberspace, scrambled and coded in a personal script he had written himself and then after a whole host of re-routing and processing arrive as an electronic voice in his employee's ear. All Stanhope had to do was repeat.

"You have to come with me."

There was a long pause. Clearly their target wasn't very talkative, not that it was a particularly bad thing though Jim did prefer his employees to have a little bite, it made beating them down more fun.

"If you haven't noticed I've been arrested." Jim allowed a strangled chuckle to escape through the small gap between his teeth, people were so predictable.

His driver cast him a curious glance in the mirror, saw he'd been spotted and returned his attention to the road.

**Then what are you waiting for? **  
>Moriarty tapped quickly into his phone and sent it, listening as his words were repeated in a slow, London accent back to him. He smiled and typed again enjoying the little game of copycat.<p>

There was another period of silence then the rustle of clothing and a faint groan, presumably from the prisoner as he lifted himself onto his feet, the sound of footsteps followed and Jim couldn't help but smile. Everything was going to plan; it was about time too.

The phone vibrated in his lap, he swiped a single digit across the screen feeling his smile grow bigger all the while. Things really were going his way, now all he needed was for the dear Colonel to co-operate and if Jim had any say in it he wasn't likely to refuse…and live to tell the tale.

**Target is moving. Meeting as instructed. **

Jim's car pulled violently out of the dark alley in which it had been hiding with the faint odour of burning rubber, the passenger in the back seat bit back a swear word as he was thrown violently against the door panel. Sometimes he was certain his men did it on purpose, a small act of revenge on their slave-master; more than a few had lost limbs because of it, some had lost much more.

The silver ford in front of them veered sharply left down a poorly lit street, the bright lights of the city centre left some way behind them.

The sweetness of his earlier indulgence lay thick on his teeth; _disgusting,_ Jim thought as he popped a chewing gum into his mouth. Usually he despised the rubbery little sticks but very occasionally they were necessary. Today was one of those days.

They zigzagged across the city for a good twenty minutes for no other reason than to confuse the passenger in the car in front.  
>Jim had always enjoyed fucking with people.<p>

By the time they reached the junction where the cars were to separate the red lights were burnt into his retinas like the eyes of the devil.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

No more than five minutes later-four minutes and thirty eight seconds to be precise-the black BMW pulled smoothly up beneath the looming silhouette of an empty warehouse. Jim had never used the place before but the vaulted space, echoing metal walls and hazy illumination leant itself to the dramatic event like no other building he had known...and if he had a weakness for anything it was dramatics.

He let himself out, sliding off the leather and planting his feet on the weed-infested gravel. He looked down, checking the polish of his shoes and then up, scanning the pitch sky.

_No stars, _he sighed heavily to himself, _what he wouldn't give to see the stars in all their glory just once in a while. He would have to see about it. One hit on the National Grid should do it; he would save it for one evening when he was especially bored. _

"Sir?"

Jim's arm flashed out instinctively, the back of his hand colliding with yielding flesh.

He looked up, pleased at the red mark glowing on his employee's face; no-one disturbed him while he was thinking, the man was either new or stupid, most probably both. He didn't recognise the thick face and bloodshot eyes but then again he never made any effort to get to know those who worked for him, fear inspired far better loyalty than camaraderie. The young man held out his shaking hand, palm open upwards, a set of perfectly polished military tags were laid out on the tanned skin. Jim plucked them up gently and dangled them in front of his nose, going nearly cross eyed as the metal discs twirled round and round on their chain.

Reaching out with one finger he traced the embossed letters, he knew the details by heart of course but having the tags in his hand felt special…sacred almost…like he was holding a man's soul between his digits.

**AB+  
>80301894<br>Moran; S.J.  
>CE<br>Army**

He traced the raised symbols five times, his lips forming the words soundlessly, before he closed his fingers around the cool metal and he took a look at his watch. The Colonel had been waiting for four minutes now and was no doubt getting ready to make a break for it…that couldn't be allowed.

Jim shrugged, smoothing down the expensive fabric of his suit and making sure all traces of his earlier treat were erased. Time to make his customary entrance in all its dramatic glory, this was his favourite part.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The warehouse was dark when he entered, just as he'd ordered, the only light filtering in through shattered, grime encrusted windows.

The tall figure of Sebastian Moran was just visible in the hazy gloom, turning away from him.

"Leaving us so soon colonel?"

Jim drooled, allowing his voice to echo around the large space.  
>The man opposite him turned, the sole of his boot squeaking on the worn concrete. Jim squeezed out a charming smile.<p>

"Of course you no longer have a right to use that title, do you?"

There was a rough grinding nose, enamel on enamel. He had clearly hit a nerve there.

_Gooooood, _Jim thought to himself, _very good. _

He slipped his hand into his pocket and pressed the send button on his phone. Almost immediately with a clang of rusted metal, Jim found himself in the centre of a spotlight. The edges of the illuminated circle lighting up the features of the ex-soldier's face from his slightly crooked nose-_broken twice-_to the blonde-brown hair on his head and chin. He looked exactly like the photos in his file, no surprise as they'd only been taken a week or so ago.

Jim pressed his palms together and locked his fingers, just tight enough to hurt.

"You were surprisingly easy to track down," the edges of his lips turned up, the pleasant smile becoming a hard smirk, "We'll have to do something about that."  
>After all he couldn't have his operatives finding the police on their doorstep at two o'clock in the morning. It was far too dangerous. Not for them of course, they were expendable, but in respect of his personal well-being it was far too risky.<p>

"Who the fucking hell are you?" his voice was slightly gruff but not unpleasant.

Jim tutted disapprovingly, more to tease than anything else.  
>He wanted to see what this man was capable of, a resume was one thing, first-hand experience quite another. And winding someone until they snapped was always a good way to start…he got the impression it wouldn't take long for Moran to break.<p>

"Language Mr Moran. And as for my identity I'd rather only divulge that slice of information once we've had a little chat."

Moran's face creased up in anger, his teeth bared like some wild animal. Jim liked that.

"Whatever you want I am not interested."

Jim held back a chuckle, tightening all his muscles to control the joyful sound that was rising up his throat.  
>He forced on a scowl and stared the taller man and bulk did not faze him, with one snap of his fingers the large fellow would be lying dead in a pool of his own blood. Jim rather liked the little scene he had painted in his head, but he would give Moran one last chance to redeem himself.<p>

"A shame," he let the word fall from his mouth in a sing-song voice and gave a cold smirk, snapping his long fingers casually. Six of his men, decked out all in black suddenly formed a circle around the man opposite, closing in on all sides until there was barely room for any of them to breathe. James's smile grew that little bit wider, "I didn't want it to get to this."

He watched with mild fascination as the ex-army colonel managed to send three of his employees to the floor. They could have killed him with one press of a trigger of course but James had given them express orders not to use their firearms, not until he gave them permission anyhow. They had seemed a bit riled at the peculiar order but were too scared to disobey. If the colonel still refused to co-operate they may still be lucky.

The small Irishman watched as punches were thrown and received, pained grunts ripping through the eerie silence of the warehouse, occasionally a breathy giggle escaped his thin lips adding to the symphony of the fist-fight.

Finally it finished, Moran sprawled inelegantly between the concrete floor and the knee of one of his operatives, the barrel of a handgun shoved roughly into the base of his neck. His tanned face was slightly flushed, hair a mess, and Jim had to admit he looked a hundred times more remarkable after a brush with danger.  
>How much better would he be covered in someone else's blood?<p>

"Now Mr Moran," he began, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking ever so slightly on his heels, a cold edge cut through his tone as he spoke, "this morning I gave you a get out of jail free card, I think it only polite that you _shut-up_ and listen to my proposition. What do you say?"

Moran struggled a little, some words leaving his mouth that made Jim's blood boil though in what respect he couldn't tell.

"Not the right answer."

With one nod Moriarty watched as the gun was pressed harder against the man's skin, but the man didn't shudder or beg, he wasn't scared. That excited Jim….and terrified him.

A strange noise escaped from the ex-colonel's mouth, a mixture between a sigh and a groan of pain; clearly those broken ribs were beginning to give him grief.

"Fine," came the final breathy reply and Jim smiled: he always won out in the end.

He made a little, satisfied humming noise in the back of his throat and shuffled from one foot to the other, slowly edging his way closer to the fallen man.

"I need a gunman, a good one with the record to prove it. And you've made quite a name for yourself in certain circles," he explained slowly.

A quirk of the lips was his reply along with a brief word of thanks.

Jim stepped forward, dragging his feet in Moran's line of sight so as to be sure his nonchalance was not missed, the highly-polished leather made a strange squeaking noise over the concrete. He bent down, pushing his face so close to Moran's that their noses almost touched, he could smell the whiskey on his breath and the broken blood vessels around his swollen eye.

"Oh don't thank me my dear. You weren't even close to the top of the list."

A lie of course; whatever James Moriarty wanted James Moriarty got, whether it required just turning up on time or blowing up a plane-full of people.  
>No need to let the colonel know that though, it gave him far too much power over proceedings and Jim preferred to keep that for himself.<p>

"So you want a gun for hire?" there was something in Moran's voice that Jim didn't like, it sounded almost as if the man was taunting him, "I gave all that up a while ago. I prefer to just be left in peace now."

_Lies_, Moriarty sang to himself, _all filthy, stinking, glorious lies._

"I've seen your résumé Colonel…not the record of a man who likes peace," he leaned in closer feeling his nose bump against the other man's, the movement was almost intimate if it hadn't been for the hard look in those blue eyes, "I can give you what you really want, what no-one else can. I can give you the thrill of the battlefield."

Jim noticed instantly that Moran's had stopped breathing and his eyes had taken on a distant, not-quite-with-it look. He could almost see the battle racing in those clear pools, a memory of a time long since over, but most importantly a time long missed. This was exactly what he had been hoping for, his lips quirked up.

"Now you can either re-pay me with your service or with your life," he drooled most charmingly, "Which will it be?"

There was a second's pause before the man on the floor nodded. Jim followed that motion with a nod of his own, a snap of his fingers and watched as Moran was pulled roughly from his spot on the ground and the black-attired men fell back into the shadows, leaving them staring at each other; one smiling coldly, the other looking down at him in blank obedience.

"A wise decision colonel. You're not as stupid as you look."

A muscle jerked in Sebastian's neck and his jaw clenched into a snarl.

"I'm not a colonel anymore."

Jim stepped up to him and despite the fact that Moran could have easily wrapped one hand around his neck and squeezed till there was no air left inside him-and it severely looked as if that was exactly what he wanted to do- Moriarty smiled.

"You will be whatever I say you are," his lips pursed themselves around the next word, emphasising for the hell of it, "Colonel."

A frown etched itself into the tanned skin of Sebastian's forehead as his eyes quickly darted up and down, sizing James up and then rapidly moving over to his men who were waiting ever-so obediently to his left. For a moment he looked almost impressed then the faint rise of his eyebrows disappeared replaced once more with passivity. Jim didn't like to admit it but he was finding this strange military man to be mildly interesting.

Their eyes met again across the empty space and bare concrete and Jim could feel his new employee trying to read him. Not that he would get anywhere. Jim had perfected the art of being unreadable a lifetime ago…or rather he had perfected the art of allowing people to read what he wanted. It was a skill he found priceless in his line of work. People saw whatever guise he presented while he was able to read them like a book. Just as he could see the unspoken question reeling around in Moran's mind as if it were printed in bold, black text upon his forehead.

"James Moriarty," he stretched out his arm towards the man opposite and allowed his fingers to dance through the air. Slowly Moran slid his palm next to Jim's and allowed a steady movement up and down to seal the deal. Jim continued to wriggle his fingers even as Seb tightened his grip. "My friends call me Jim."

It was James who pulled away first, his fingers dipping into the deep pockets of his jacket and curling around the metal discs within, they were warm now with heat from his own body, an impression of himself on this man who was now promised to his service.

_Gez_, he thought scoldingly, _that sounded romantic_.

He folded the chain within his palm and pulled it out.

The tags dangled in the air for a moment, spinning in a slow circle and Seb's eyes followed their movement as if hypnotised by it.

Slowly Jim pressed the chain and pendants into the colonel's hands with a cat-like grin, pushing the metal in hard enough to brand the marks momentarily into the brown skin of his palm.

"_You_ can call me sir."

* * *

><p><em>So...that was was first fling with SebastianJim. _

_There may be more, if I ever get any free time again._


End file.
